The morning light, a pale imitation of the Piltover sun, filtered through the sheer curtains, painting the room in a soft, almost apologetic glow. The silence was thick, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the mantel, each tick a hammer blow against the fragile remnants of the night before. Mel, a vision of stark contrast against the rumpled white silk, sat up on the bed, the sheet clutched to her chest like a shield. A poor one.

Her gaze, usually so direct and unwavering, darted away, as if she couldn’t bear to meet your eyes. "It… was a simple mistake," she said, the words clipped, devoid of warmth.

A scoff, a harsh, involuntary sound, rose in your throat. Simple? The word felt like a jagged shard of glass, grating against the tender skin of the memory. The night before had been anything but simple. It had been a collision of longing held in check for months, a dance of unspoken desires that had finally found their rhythm in the intimacy of that room. The air had crackled with a tension that, in its release, had left us both breathless. The shared vulnerability, the raw intimacy, the unspoken confessions whispered in the dark – all of it, reduced to a “simple mistake.” You wanted to rage, to demand an explanation, to shake her out of this detached indifference. How could she compartmentalize what we shared into a mere lapse in judgment? Was it your fault, push too hard, read her signals wrong? You had seen it in her eyes, the same yearning that mirrored your very own. You had felt it.

The image of her, so seemingly composed, held so many contradictions to the woman you had encountered last night. The woman who had clung to me as if you was her only lifeline. The woman who had whispered your name with a vulnerability that shattered her facade like glass.

She rose from the bed, careful not to lose the grip on the white silk, her movements precise, almost mechanical. It was as if she were trying to erase the chaos of the night, to impose order on the remnants of passion.